


Alone Together

by LanadelBeyoncePuncher



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Graphic Depictions of Wounds, M/M, More Like Unusual Companions to Friends to Lovers, Romance, Slow Burn, Stabbing, Talon and Malzahar Don't Know When to Quit, lots of snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-11-03 16:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17881388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanadelBeyoncePuncher/pseuds/LanadelBeyoncePuncher
Summary: Talon is a cold hearted assassin who couldn't give a damn about anyone else. Malzahar is a prophet disillusioned with the ruin of mankind. They've always been alone, but a chance encounter brings the two lone wolves together as they rediscover buried feelings about themselves and other people.





	1. In the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a request from Queenofbreak on tumblr, who asked if i could write talzahar that didnt revolve around them fucking. Cheers bro, ill write to that.

What a hell of a night for a job.

The bright white moon hanging high over Shurima's quiet sands casts a pale coat of silver along the streets of the city below. It's a beautiful sight to behold, but one man isn't all too pleased with the bright light glinting off his silver knives. Talon slides left to narrowly avoid the knives aimed at his head and takes off down the dimly lit alleyway. He curses himself for not double-checking his clientele’s legitimacy before taking on such a mission, but there's no time to reflect on that now. All he needs in this moment is to outrun the bastards trailing him.

Another quick sidestep around a tall building finds Talon alone in the midst of a dead end.Boxes of junk, moth eaten cloth thrown about, spare boards and empty cans of paint pile against the tall, smooth wall. At two stories,the buildings are free of any windows or ledges. His eyes dart to the stone walls and he considers using the piles of junk to aid his escape, but attempting to create a makeshift tower would take far too long. Several guards shout “Assassin!” and Talon clicks his tongue in disdain. No other way out than through the men, he supposes.

Talon turns to face his assailants and takes up a careful fighting stance while raising his arm blade in front of his body for protection. Guards fill the alley bottleneck, with two blocking Talon from running out as five more take up position around him with swords and shields in hand. A couple guards were doable, but this many armoured grunts with pointy weapons were a hazard for Talon's cloth armour. Really, all he can do is defend himself the best he can.

He stands firm as the two guards positioned before him slowly begin a forward advance with their sharp swords pointing at the assassin. Talon's eyes dart from one man's hand to another in search of a weakness of grip, of scars or incorrect stance to aid in his soon to be bloody battle. Whatever edge he can gain from poor training, the assassin will abuse to get himself out alive.

“You’re not gonna get away wit’ killin’ the boss, assassin. We're gonna turn ya into mince meat!” One of the guards threatens between bared teeth.

Talon doesn't speak a word in reply. Petty banter wasn't his forte, nor a skill he cared much for.

“Yea! Let's get him!” Another guard cheers.

Two rush for Talon head-on, but before anyone can make a move, the guards are stunned into silence as two glowing portals open on either side of the men. A wave of negative energy spills out of the deep violet portals and strikes both guards at the same time. Even though the energy projectiles pass through their bodies, the men are left trembling in their wake before falling to the ground with blood spilling out of their noses and ears. On his left, the guard lets out a blood-curdling scream as small creatures emerge from the open portal and begin tearing flesh right off his bones. Likewise, the guards on his right are also screaming, but those two are smashing their heads off the walls and fighting each other as they bellow in agony about betrayal.

_“Icathia beckons.”_

Talon perks up at the sound of a deep, hollow voice calling out behind him and turns ever so slightly to view the stranger behind him. A stranger with purple robes and glowing blue eyes levitates several feel above the ground by magic Talon assumes came from the void. He’s covered in cuts and a large crimson stain tarnishes his jacket with wet blood. The remaining two guards turn to bolt away, but before they can get far a large portal opens beneath their feet and Talon watches as the two unfortunate souls are dragged down by an unseen force into the void below.

Not long after the last of the guards cease screaming Talon turns his whole body around, still in a fighting stance, and stares at the man glowing with unearthly violet light as he slowly lowers himself to the ground.

“Tell me why you did that,” Talon demands. Quick and to the point.

_“If they had discovered me...the fight would have been very inconvenient. So focused on you, they didn't even see me…”_ The stranger chuckles behind a mask of deep purple fabric.

Talon watches as the man's knees give out beneath his bloodied body and he falls forward onto his stomach, followed by a wretch of agony and the sight of blood spilling from beneath his mask. Judging by the severity of his injuries, Talon doubts the man will survive the night. However, he _was_ saved by this odd, magic being and Talon isn't one to overlook small favors.

“How long have you been out here?” Talon presses for more answers and kneels down beside the stranger.

Haggard breaths wet with blood fill the silence between them before the strange finds the strength to speak again. _“Not long. Dealing with that meddlesome man...is a trial. That...cursed Kassadin…”_

“You're badly wounded,” Talon points out.

_“...are you going to kill me?”_ comes his reply.

“No.”

_“Why?”_

“You scratched an itch for me. This will be repayment, nothing more,” the assassin insists as he leans over the stranger and slowly picks him up, leaning the bloodied man against his chest.

He's a little heavier than Talon originally anticipated, but it's nothing he can't handle. Being a lifetime assassin meant Talon had enough sense to sprint in the opposite direction of his temporary lodging while being pursued by handfuls of guards. It makes slipping through the shadows that much easier, even with the stranger bleeding on his jacket the entire time. He's a bit amazed the man doesn't fall limp entirely from blood loss and remains conscious all the way back to the abandoned home Talon sequestered for himself. A slight adjustment to his usual entry route and Talon drops down into the upper level of the two story brick house. Outside, the desert winds swirl along the expansive sand plains and fill the air with a cold, bitter chill.

Talon walks into the main bedroom and carefully lays the stranger on his back atop the mattress. He makes a pained wheeze when moved, but otherwise remaining breathing in and out with blue eyes flickering shut every so often. Talon kneels down by the man's bedside and pulls out a small knife, which he uses to cut the stiff and bloodstained cloth away from the man's face. It's caked in old and new blood that reeks of death. The fabric is quickly tossed into a pile while Talon cuts free the hood and vest to expose the man's chest. He doesn't see any bloodstains below the belt, which Talon is grateful for, since it means he can stop slicing up cloth.

_“You're...ruining my clothes…”_ the stranger protests weakly, which brings a small smirk to Talon's face.

“Not dead enough to stop running your mouth, I see,” he teases and discards the last of the stranger's soiled cloth.

Talon rises and moves to the small bathroom, which was little more than a reservoir of water and a wooden tub for one to take a sponge bath in. Said water is clean water, which Talon knows for sure, since he himself spent time that morning bringing it inside bucket by bucket. Using a towel left behind in the old house, Talon wets a portion of the cloth and walks back into the bedroom where the stranger lays quietly on the mattress. He makes short work of cleaning the man's wounds and bandaging them with clean strips of gauze. Talon even dabs on a few drops of a special healing potion he typically reserved only for himself.

Just in case.

He didn't carry a wounded man several blocks just for him to unceremoniously bleed out on his fucking bed.

Talon sits back on his heels to inspect his handiwork for a moment and carefully placed two fingers against the stranger's tanned neck to check for a pulse. One. Two. Three. Each beat is another affirmation of the assassin's meticulous rescue efforts to keep this magical person alive. He is indeed, still living. The stranger being conscious was a whole separate story.

Although the man was no longer dripping in blood, he had fallen unconscious partway into Talon cleaning and wrapping his wounds, leaving the assassin alone to watch over his temporary charge. Just for a day or two. As soon as the man could walk, Talon was going to kick him out of his Shuriman hideout. For now, all he can do is observe the sleeping man before him.

Short brown hair cut in awkward chunks clings to the man's head as he sleeps, shadowing tanned skin marked with healing cuts and strange, glowing blue runes running down his shoulders. He's incredibly fit, Talon notes as his eyes roam to the man's abs and sturdy arms. Most mages were soft and squishy people who relied on their innate abilities more than physical strength. Not this one, it seemed. Maybe it was the harsh conditions of the Shuriman desert that had prompted him to hone his physical strength. Maybe it was void magic. Talon had no way of knowing without asking.

With the stranger asleep on the only suitable bed in the entire run-down house, Talon elects to sit himself against the cold stone wall while he sleeps. He can't leave the mage alone in his bedroom. Not after witnessing the vast devastation unleashed upon the guards unfortunate enough to give chase into that fated alley. Last thing Talon desired was a rude awakening by flesh hungry voidlings tearing into his face. Instead, the assassin sits back with one leg bent and the other resting against the floor while his eyes bore holes into the stranger’s sleeping form. Knowing it would be hours before sunrise, Talon began preparing himself to deal with the next day's exhaustion after keeping watch over his strange charge.

It was going to be a long night.


	2. Bloodied

Talon stays up all night watching the unusual mage in unconscious sleep. Despite his body begging for rest and the throbbing headache occupying his head, the assassin continues to remain awake and alert for any signs of guards or change in the stranger man's state. Come morning, the man remains sound asleep, even when the raven haired assassin crawls over to the bed and prods the mage's tanned face several times. Talon gingerly runs his fingers over the gauze wrapping the wounds and finds that several of them are darkened with spots of dried blood, but not entirely soaked. Good. The mage was recovering.

After taking a few moments to inspect the stranger's condition, Talon slowly makes his way downstairs and over to the remains of an old living room. One very rickety chair sits in the far corner and overlooks a broken table beside a small couch with uncomfortable, lumpy cushions and a few ragged pillows. It didn’t appear very comfortable, but even a quick nap on the couch would be better than the floor. Talon knows taking a moment of respite could still be detrimental if the mage chose to awake and attempt to kill him, but it was a risk the assassin was willing to take. The other man had been nearly-dead when Talon pulled him from that alley. He wasn’t _terribly_ concerned.  
  
Sleep is short-lived, but Talon feels much better awakening several hours later when he rises. By now, the sun is high in the sky over Shurima and the heat pours off the sands in waves, which blow through the slatted windows. Talon glances down at his gear and groans as he lays in a sweat soaked pile of leather and cloth. They had to go.

He sits up and tosses his cloak over the back of the couch, followed by his boots, which he nonchalantly kicks onto the floor. Next come his bodysuit, which he wriggles out of, leaving himself in a pair of boxers as he lays back down on the crummy couch.

“It's too damn hot…” Talon groans aloud, as if complaining about the heat would make it go away.

Above his head, the wooden bed creaks with the shifting of weight and Talon immediately goes silent. He had almost forgotten about the injured mage he was harboring in his hideout. The assassin grabs his arm blade and carefully stalks his way up the steps in nothing but his boxers and slowly presses the door open a hair. He can see the mage's hand moving ever so slightly and before Talon can step in, the man summons a small void portal and a tiny creature with many eyes falls out, tumbling onto the bed.

It's then Talon throws open the door, holding up his blade in warning. “You're awake.”

_“Regrettably,”_ the stranger softly replies. _“I suppose the pain will be part of the healing.”_

“You got a name?” Talon questions as he steps a little closer to the bed, his eyes watching the voidling crawling alo over carefully.

_“Malzahar. And you?”_

“Does it matter?”

_“You saved my life. I would at least like to know the name of the man who carried the Void's Prophet to safety,”_ Malzahar counters as he raises the voidling up on his hand until it's staring straight at the assassin.

A few moments of silence pass before Talon finally folds.

“Talon.”

_“The Void thanks you, Talon.”_

“I told you, it was just an itch you scratched. This is just to make sure you don't die, nothing more,” the assassin repeats coldly.

He ignores the tiny creature for now and walks to the side of the bed to check Malzahar's bandages. Glowing blue eyes follow his blade and every step to the bedside. Talon is sure the mage must be wondering why he's walking around in underwear alone, but he doesn't care enough at the moment to explain. It's hot and Talon would rather be stared at for sporting boxers than boil alive in his bodysuit.

Glancing at the dried blood, Talon sets his blade within easy reach on the stone floor and begins peeling away the old gauze. Malzahar makes a few pained hisses and clenches his fist against the bed sheets as the assassin tears his still healing skin off in order to remove the foul bandages. Talon takes a moment to grab a new cloth and dab the dark red gashes with a bit of warm water to clean up any leaking blood or body fluids. Even with all the care the assassin is taking, he can now see the wounds are quite deep. He suspects a blade of some kind had pierced the mage's side. Through some miracle, it hadn't sliced into Malzahar's gut, but to get it to heal faster would require stitches.

“You have a deep side wound,” Talon tells the aching mage.

_“I assume you are telling me this because there is something you want to do to it.”_

“I didn't get the chance to stitch it up last night. Besides, it would have been a shit job in the dark.”

Malzahar makes a small huff which Talon interprets as a laugh. _“Do as you will. It's not like I have the strength to stop you.”_

“You killed seven men in this state.”

_“Those men didn't carry me to safety,”_ the mage points out plainly.

It's only a fact of the situation, but even so, Talon finds himself at a loss for words as he stares down at the void mage. Rarely did mages submit their lives into his hands, and even rarer still did one say so without any sort of satire. Malzahar really was allowing Talon to do as he saw fit. The mage really had lost his goddamn mind to the void’s nonsense. Still, Malzahar had a wound that needed stitching so it could heal properly. Talon takes a moment to reach under the small side table and grab a box filled with gauze, needles, thread, and a few various potions. He uses the rag from earlier to wipe down his hands before threading a needle and shifting forward so his weight rested on his knees.

“This is going to hurt,” he warns the mage.

_“I will try not to scream.”_

Talon digs the needle into Malzahar's side and watches the man nearly cry out in agony. His hands scramble for purchase and one winds up clinging to the mattress while the other grips Talon's shoulder painfully tight. Working around an immense pressure on his left arm is a bit detrimental, but Talon doesn't push Malzahar away. Whatever it takes to keep the man quiet. Carefully, Talon tugs the needle in and out of Malzahar's tender skin as he sutures the wound closed. Not the best seam, but it’ll do.

He ties off the thread and snaps the end before applying a few drops of healing potion to the fresh, slightly bloody seam before wrapping it back up in gauze. There's a few other wounds on the mage's body, but most of them are too shallow to suture, so Talon simply dabs away the blood and applies a bit of healing potion wrapped beneath more cloth bandages. Once the assassin is finished, Malzahar pulls his hand away from Talon's shoulder. He frowns at the sight of a few bruises left behind on the assassin's skin.

_“It seems it gripped too hard,”_ the brunette points out as his fingers caress the rim of the bruise. _“Apologies.”_

“I didn't notice. It can't be that bad,” Talon insists and sits back on his heels to inspect his work. Pretty good for an assassin.

“Pain?”

_“Bearable. Better now that you aren't sticking me with a needle,”_ Malzahar chuckles softly before immediately groaning in agony.

“I see your injuries haven't eliminated your need to harass your savior.”

_“What else am I going to talk about?”_

“I dunno. The weather?”

Malzahar shoots Talon a deadpan look of disapproval and the assassin replies with a shit-eating grin of his own.

“That was a good one.”

_“I prefer being dead.”_

“You're also shit out of luck on that one.”  
  
All Talon receives in reply is a roll of the mage’s glowing eyes as the tiny voidling crawls onto Malzahar’s shoulder. It chitters with a strange noise that reminds Talon of hundreds of crickets all chirping at once. The dissonance is certainly a bit unnerving. He slowly slides back to retrieve his blade  once Malzahar settles back down on the mattress and turns to leave the room when Talon catches the mage touching his chapped lips. Right. He should probably get the mage something to eat and drink.

There's no ceremony behind the food Talon brings Malzahar. It's less prepared food and more dried rations and things that the assassin were fairly sure could be eaten. Beggars didn't get to be choosy about their meals. He sets three pieces of dried meat and half a bumpy fruit snatched from a market stall one day earlier in a small bowl and carries the ensemble back to Malzahar, hosting a waterskin in his other hand. Talon, still bearing nothing but his boxers and the awkward metal weapon on his arm, sets the bowl down on the mage's chest and holds up the waterskin with his bare hand.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he tells the void mage.

_“I suppose so, yes,”_ Malzahar agrees with a parched whisper.

Talon hasn't really fed another person before. Not like this. Even if he was contracted for interrogation, the sessions never quite lasted long enough to require serious care. He kneels down at the mage's bedside and carefully unscrewing the cap on the waterproof bag before tipping the contents towards Malzahar's face.

Water pours out, splashing the mage in the face as Talon tips the bag too fast, causing Malzahar to cough and splutter. Talon offers the mage a sheepish half-grin and eases back so Malzahar can regain his breath.

_“You know, for an assassin, you are rather uncoordinated,”_ Malzahar huffs.

He grabs the end of the skin and brings it to his lips, tilting it back as he saw fit, until the entire waterskin is empty. Malzahar grabs the cap from Talon's hand and screws it back on so the remaining few drops don't add to the drips sliding down his cheeks. At least the water felt good in the Shuriman heat.

“I'm just not accustomed to the whole ‘caring’ business, idiot,” Talon snaps back and yanks the bag away. “You better eat that food before it goes bad.”

_“I will. Myself,”_ Malzahar retorts coldly. _“Better that I avoid suffocating from being force-fed by a brute.”_

“Fuck you.”

_“No thanks.”_

“Glad you're feeling better because as soon as you can walk, you're on your own,” Talon seethes before storming out of the room.

_“Being alone is nothing new to me.”_

Malzahar quips at the assassin's back as his glowing eyes watch the man stalk out of the bedroom and disappear down the stairs.


	3. Bruised

“Fucking dick,” Talon grumbles to himself as he stalks through his hideout like an angry child.

“You try to give a guy water and he insults your handiwork. Would have loved to see him try and patch up his own wounds.”

The assassin throws himself backwards onto the lumpy couch with a soft groan and rubs his hands over his eyes. He can't believe the nerve of the void mage. A little water spilled on his face and suddenly every word out of his mouth is condescending.

It doesn't help that the Shuriman heat is turning the house into a makeshift oven. Sure, it was secure thanks to most of the windows and doors being boarded up, but it also meant the building had awful air circulation. Just laying back on the old couch Talon could feel sweat soaking into the fabric. He drops his hands and lets out a short huff. A sponge bath might be nice.

Talon rises from the creaky couch and walks back upstairs to access the bathroom on the second floor. It was big enough to contain a wooden tub along with a mechanical pump connecting to the house reservoir below. Nothing fancy but it was good enough to clean blood off. He sets the hand blade down on the floor beside the tub and slides off his cotton boxers. Fully naked, Talon steps into the tub and crouches down before grabbing the pump handle and giving it several cranks.

A small stream of water sputters out the metal pipe and into the wooden floor of the tub. Talon keeps pumping until his feet are covered and then stops to grab a small scrap cloth. He carefully dips the fabric in water and begins the tedious process of wiping down his entire body. One thing he appreciated about Noxus, Demacia and Piltover was running water and pipe systems. Shurima and the Freljord often lacked basic necessities which forced Talon to improvise. Such at he was now. Crouched in a wooden tub wiping off sweat and blood.

He rubs his left shoulder and grimaces when the flesh shudders in agony. Seared into his skin are several dark splotches of color standing out against Talon's natural skin tone. A cautious press of his fingers confirms the injury as several finger-shaped bruises. Malzahar. He _did_ apologize, Talon reminds himself as he moves on to clean up the remainder of his body.

For all the jabs at his lack of people-person skills, Malzahar also spoke very odd words to Talon. “Thank You” and “Apologies” after bruising Talon's shoulder. Words not often spoken to the assassin, if at all. People didn't thank him for his helping hand. They thanked him for removing enemies in their way. All their praise was reserved for jobs done well. Ditto when it came to apologizing. His targets apologized for their sins, though their words meant nothing to him. Talon simply slit their talkative throats and went on his way. Yet, Malzahar laid in bed apologizing for hurting Talon. Something the assassin couldn't recall _ever_ happening.   
  
Or maybe he was simply overthinking again.  
  
Talon steps out of the wooden bath and waves his arms a few times to get the remaining droplets of water off his skin as he reaches down to pull on his undergarment. Used they might be, Talon still wasn’t fully convinced he should be running around naked with a mage occupying his bed. He grabs his hand blade and wipes down the metal dotted with crimson until it turns back to a dull silver. It was never wise to let one’s tools rust. Just as Talon places his hand on the railing in preparation to leap over and down a floor, he pauses. Malzahar is just a room behind him. He knows he should check in on the mage. For posterity’s sake.  
  
He makes his presence no secret this time and walks right into the bedroom to inspect the injured mage. Talon raises an eyebrow at the sight of Malzahar attempting to sit up and failing miserably while clutching his bandaged side.  
  
“What are you doing?” He questions.  
  
_“Leaving. Was it not obvious?”_   
  
“You can barely sit up.”  
  
_“I thought you wanted me gone. As soon as I can walk, yes? Best I get moving before Kassadin finds this house as well,”_ Malzahar points out before collapsing onto his back with a pained wheeze.  
  
Talon meanders over and stares down at the mage incredulously. “If you keep moving, you’re going to bust your stitches.”  
  
_“What do you care?”_  
  
“Hey, idiot, I saved your fucking life. Don’t make me waste all my supplies just to die in my goddamn bed,” he spits back.  
  
Back to square one, Talon supposes, watching Malzahar turn his gaze from the assassin. He stands up straight and sighs softly as his mind fights the course of his next move. Is he to apologize? Stand his ground? What did he have to gain from telling this mage to stop being stupid? _Why_ was he worrying so much about this mage, anyway?  
  
“I….um,” Talon slowly begins before he finds his voice amidst the midday heat. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Malzahar turns his head to meet the assassin’s eyes. _“You’re sorry for what exactly?”_ _  
__  
_ “For spilling water on your face. And calling you a dick. Don’t get to used to it, though. Just doing this because you’re not in any condition to be up and moving, so stop trying to roll yourself out of bed and bust your stitches,” Talon mutters with a hint of humility.  
  
_“I do suppose I was being unreasonable. You have my apologies. Again,”_ the mage calmly replies. _“This heat is rather intense. I’m actually grateful you cooled my face.”_ __  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t push it,” Talon scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I’m going to get you some more water.”  
  
He steps away from Malzahar and scoops up the empty waterskin laying on the side table before turning back to the door. The mage says nothing in response as the assassin leaves the room. Talon pretends not to feel a small pang of satisfaction after spotting the empty meal bowl sitting on the table next to Malzahar’s bed. Maybe they would get along after all.


	4. Burns

“God, why is Shurima so fucking hot?” Talon whines to the bedridden mage while pacing about the small bedroom. It wasn’t long after removing the remnants of lunch that Talon returned to oversee Malzahar’s health. His bandages could be left well alone, but the stuffy heat of his boarded up bedroom was starting to get on the assassin’s nerves.

 _“Well, it is a desert.”_ Malzahar calmly points out. His eyes follow the _still_ mostly naked assassin moving back and forth in a pattern which is starting to drive the mage crazy. _“Talon. Stop pacing. You’re giving me a headache.”_  
  
“I’m trying to cool down by making a breeze.”  
  
_“You’re working up a sweat, that’s the opposite of what you want to do. What’s making you want to burn a hole through the floorboards?”_  
  
Talon doesn’t reply to Malzahar’s question and instead stops his incessant pacing to lay down on the stone floor opposite the boarded up window. It places him on the right hand side of the room between the bed and only a foot from another brick wall, but at least the shadow of the mattress is providing a little bit of protection from the sun’s burning rays. He closes his eyes in an attempt to meditate the uncomfortable heat away, but Talon’s efforts are in vain. Steaming sweat beading against his brow. A layer of dry dirt caking beneath his fingernails. The cawing of ravenous vultures outside the windows. There’s too much noise interrupting Talon’s pleasant state of mind. He grunts in irritation and throws a sweat-slicked arm over his eyes.  
  
Malzahar is the first to break the midday silence.  
  
_“Where do you hail from that you are not accustomed to the Shuriman heat? I had figured you to be a patron of these lands, given your secluded base, but you haven’t stopped complaining about the sun since it rose this morning.”_

“Noxus,” Talon replies instantly.  
  
_“Tell me about Noxus.”_

“Why the hell do you want to know about my home city?” Comes the assassin’s agitated reply. “The less you know about me, the better.”  
  
_“I grew up in Shurima. On the streets, where the hot summer sun beat across my back until dusk. The burns it delivered to me every day scourged my skin and my body. It is an unforgiving land,”_ Malzahar rasps in his dissonant voice. _“But a land with people of all kinds. Sultans in jeweled slippers, merchants displaying silk tapestries, vagrants begging for coin or scraps of bread. I have seen it all. I have lived it all.”_  
  
Talon drops his arm to the wooden floor with a soft thud as the void mage recounts a small scrap of information about his life. There’s more to Malzahar’s words.Ever since the mage regained consciousness, the words he spoke were steeped with hidden truths. Just like a puzzle with many sides; Talon is only now beginning to see slivers of their true shapes. He wonders if it’s wise to open himself in a similar manner. He gave Malzahar his name, but the silence stretching between them demands more. An unspoken request for Talon to show his own pieces in the light.  
  
It’s a request that Talon fears could sabotage his entire life’s work. He was successful _because_ no one knew anything about him. He could slip in and out of shadows because no one had ever been told what his childhood was like. If one could call a lifetime of assassination and thievery a childhood. Talon did not come all the way out to Shurima on a whim. He was here in search of Du Couteau, nothing more. The mage doesn’t need to know anything besides Talon’s name.  
  
He closes his eyes and the room lapses into stifling silence as Malzahar gives up on asking any more questions.

Neither one speaks for the rest of the day and as the sun sets over the horizon, Talon takes the opportunity to slip back downstairs and pull the rest of his suit back on. Without the blazing sun keeping the sands warm, the temperature drops into a much more comfortable, if not slightly chilly range. The dark haired assassin relishes the cloth hugging his frame and covering his scarred skin in a layer of protection. Even if said protection is merely cloth armour.  
  
He grabs his blade and makes his way upstairs to the bedroom where Talon pulls a curtain made of woven fibers overlaid by old cloth aside to reveal the exit and entrance to his secret hideout. It’s big enough for Talon to move through with ease while also maintaining the appearance as a patched up window on an old house. Across from the entrance is another empty hovel which he can easily leap onto. Carrying Malzahar had proven to be a bit of a struggle, but Talon somehow managed to slide himself and the man through without completely damaging said mage. Now, he places his left foot squarely on the windowsill and prepares to lunge for the other rooftop when Malzahar's voice cuts through the silence.

_“Where are you going?”_

“Out,” Talon replies coldly. He didn't owe the mage any explanation for where he went or why.

 _“I see,”_ Malzahar hums as he lapses back into laying quietly on the bed.  
  
There’s a brief moment in which Talon supposes he should feel bad for leaving Malzahar behind in the empty house. He doesn’t. The assassin pushes off the sandstone wall and leaps out into the cool night air. Pulling in his arms, Talon lands in a crouch on the next rooftop to soften the blow on his knees before he picks up into a sprint across the quiet outskirts of Shurima. He leaps and rolls and flips over the varying buildings making up the tightly packed housing districts amidst the massive dunes of sand. Cool wind blows through his cloak and tousles his short brown hair with its invisible fingers brushing through his dark locks. He missed these sensations. A pure pulse of freedom from the world of suffering below.

Talon leaps onto the ledge of a window leading up to the top of a very tall looking building, which he assumes must be a bank of some kind. It's a snap to scale the side of the structure and as Talon pulls himself onto the very top of the roof he's greeted with his first truly peaceful view of Shurima. Talon even affords himself a moment to enjoy the sky twinkling with stars of all sizes and colors as they peppered the inky abyss with their bright lights. He takes a seat on the edge of the rooftop and stares at the vast chasm separating the floating city from the dangerous desert sands. Far from the dangerous Xer’sai, but connected to land by massive bridges, the city of Shurima was an architectural miracle in itself and Talon appreciated the isolation. The less threats to his health and mission, the better.

He's about to make a snarky comment to Malzahar about his choice of dangerous home terrain when the assassin pulls a full stop on his wandering mind. Since _when_ did he desire to share his thoughts with a void mage? They were _not_ friends. Hell, they were barely acquaintances. Talon was merely ensuring the man made a swift recovery so they could go their separate ways.

  
Or so he tells himself over and over again when the persistent, nagging voice at the back of his mind reminds Talon: _You could be more._


	5. Bandages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the hiatus im back with more talzahar. also with some fantastic art made by @v-a-t-s on tumblr, you should check her stuff out (sorry if you're on mobile the pic is gonna wreck your shit)

Talon remains atop the bank building far into the chilly night with the moon and stars shining down from the dark abyss above. It reminds Talon of the void with its infinite darkness and the void brings back images of Malzahar, which only serves to agitate him further. He wasn’t here to make friends and _certainly_ not to fuss over the health of a grown man. Malzahar staying with him was a temporary arrangement in order to fulfil a favor. Nothing more.  
  
After several hours of staring up at the night sky, the assassin resigns himself to return before dawn and slides down the bank’s eastern face onto a rooftop below. Back he leaps across tile and stone rooftops with quick footfalls to avoid detection. Returning always felt easier than making the journey from his secret hovel. He's careful not to disturb the peaceful silence enveloping the Shuriman neighborhood while leaping into the window used for an entrance. Pushing aside the woven curtains allows Talon to glimpse upon the form of Malzahar lying still in his bed with eyes closed and a dim, pale blue light emanating from his shoulder tattoos. No doubt they were imbued with some kind of magic.

Talon slides into the bedroom and allows the curtain to slide back into place behind him as he releases a slow and careful breath. He's not interested in rousing the mage at this hour. Rest was the most important aspect of Malzahar’s recovery. So with painstakingly slow and methodical steps, Talon maneuvers his body through the bedroom, down the stairs, and finally onto the couch where he collapses back on the lumpy piece of furniture with a long sigh. Another day and Talon is no closer to finding Du Couteau’s whereabouts. Perhaps said void mage would be willing to lend Talon some information tomorrow morning.

For now the dark haired assassin closes his eyes and slips into the uneasy embrace of sleep. 

The next morning's events play out almost identical to the first time Talon woke up remembering a dangerous mage was sequestered in his bedroom. Talon--still in his underwear--leaps off the couch, swipes his blade from an old coffee table, and creeps up the stairs to inspect his unusual house mate. Malzahar has, in between when he woke up and when his movements awoke Talon, situated himself into a seated position on the mattress with blankets draped over his legs. Two voidlings skitter around the mattress making odd, chittering noises while tapping their spindly appendages against his bandages and dark limbs.

Talon throws open the door without so much as a hello and sends the small creatures running for cover while Malzahar lifts his head to meet the assassin's eyes.

 _“Good morning, Talon,”_ Malzahar says softly.

“How's the side wound?” Talon prods without much formality towards the mage. 

Carefully, Malzahar reaches down and peels away a small section of bandage to reveal several large gashes with reddened skin slowly beginning to regenerate scar tissue. His largest wound is still leaking blood from the very center of the cut. Pus oozes out around Talon’s careful stitching and drips down Malzahar's skin like thickened sweat. Gross, but not a foreboding sign.

“Not bad.” Talon strides to the bedside and kneels down to pull the remaining gauze free. “A little rough, but at least you aren't still bleeding out heavily.”

_“I have you to thank for that.”_

The dark haired assassin quirks an eyebrow at Malzahar's praising statement. It's not like Talon just did anything worth thanking. He couldn't heal Malzahar in the same manner as Sona from the blindingly ‘perfect’ kingdom of Demacia or the goat lady from the stars. Medicine for Talon was gauze and, if he was lucky, some healing potion dribbled onto a wound until his pain had subsided.

“Uh huh. I gotta clean them again, hold still,” Talon commands.

He grabs a new scrap of cloth for a washrag from the closest night table and wets the end with a waterskin. Talon gently dabs the smaller cuts while following the line of scars decorating Malzahar's side. Up with careful hands he goes, until the assassin stops right along the edge of the largest leaking gash. He re-wets his rag and presses it against the bleeding wound to clean up the oozing pus and help staunch any current blood flow. Malzahar grunts in pain as Talon pushes the stinging, wet cloth harder against his most sensitive and deepest wound.

“Just a little longer,” Talon finds himself whispering to the void mage.

He pulls the cloth away and watches the wound continue to bleed for a few seconds, to which Talon scowls. Due to the deep nature of Malzahar’s side gash, it wasn’t healing nearly as rapidly as the assassin had hoped. Time for a new plan of attack. He places the cloth in Malzahar's hand and instructs him to keep pressure on his oppressive wound for a few minutes. Talon ducks into the bathroom, roots around in the cupboards and crannies for a minute, then pulls a small, spare health potion from beneath a basket of towels. It's not as strong as his usual brand and _technically_ intended only for emergencies, but a deep, bleeding wound could create many more health hazards if Malzahar got infected. Talon knows he’ll just pilfer another off some ignorant sap in the bazaar later. 

“Drink this,” Talon calls into his bedroom as he tosses Malzahar the potion vial.

Said mage catches it with ease and slowly pries off the cork using his teeth and free hand. _“Not a direct skin application?”_  

“The bleeding is internal. If I poured it on, you'd still bleed and with nowhere to go, it would back up. All those other cuts were pretty shallow. That one was a real thrust,” the dark haired assassin quickly explains.

 _“Impressive. You're rather intelligent, Talon,”_ Malzahar says with a slight smile before setting the empty vial on the nightstand.

“You saying you thought I was stupid?” Talon bristles.

 _“Not at all. I simply meant to compliment your thoughtful practices and care,”_ the void mage corrects as he glances over at Talon.

For a moment, the assassin is caught off guard entirely by the word _compliment_ , and flushes with bright red blush stretching across his face. Talon struggles to come up with a response to Malzahar's words, but they all quickly die on his anxious tongue. 

“Thanks...I guess,” he finally settles on. Talon punctuates it with a quick cross of his scarred arms over his chest to distract from his embarrassing blush. “You uh, you're pretty good with words. I like that.”

Malzahar smiles at Talon's unusual return of compliment and chuckles softly in delight. _“Thank you. I do try to maintain an expanded vocabulary. Helps to intimidate the ignorant and simple minded into believing me a seer far beyond their mortal comprehension.”_

“So you dupe them,” Talon corrects as he rolls his eyes.

 _“In a way. They're right about one thing, though. The Void is coming to bring this world to ruin and I will oversee its final destruction,”_ Malzahar cackles with a crooked smile spread across his face. Glowing eyes meet Talon's dull, simple brown and seem to search for something in the assassin.  

Fear, maybe. Terror over the idea Malzahar is bringing the complete collapse of Runeterra right to his front door. He finds Talon staring into his glowing abyssal pools with nothing more than mild disdain. His lack of confusion and horror gives pause to Malzahar's typical speech regarding the short lifespan of humans and their ideal of being the most superior lifeforms. Talon doesn't appear to give any fucks.

 _“Usually people grovel,”_ the void mage hesitantly informs his odd housemate. _“Or react to what I'm saying.”_

“I just gave you a compliment and you made it weird. I am reacting. It's called ‘ignoring the garbage coming out of your mouth’,” Talon callously points out.

Malzahar balks in wake of Talon's backlash with the sensation of nettles stinging his chest as the assassin gives him the cold shoulder. He feels as though he's overstepped a boundary, somehow. A few too many steps into territory Talon didn't much appreciate. Maybe mentioning his devotion to the Void and collapse of Runeterra as a planet was a little _too_ apocalyptic for Talon’s tastes. Malzahar watches the assassin stalk out of his afforded room and back downstairs with heavy, agitated footsteps proclaiming his departure down the stairs. Logically, there’s no reason for Malzahar to feel recourse for his words. He is the Void’s prophet. A being far above normal humans and their pitiful, selfish whims.  
  
_But._ A piece of his heart protests. _But Talon is not normal either._ Talon with his sharp blades and quick reflexes. His hungry, animalistic eyes that crave violence and answers. The pure, unadulterated defiance in his blood which prompts him to face guards and dangerous mages head-on. Malzahar has never met another man(aside from Kassadin) who dared look him in the eyes and declare himself unafraid. Talon made him feel less all-powerful and more _human_ . More so than Malzahar had felt in many, many years. Were these feelings a good thing? Malzahar finds himself questioning the validity of his emotions towards a man who could slit his throat anytime he so pleased. Quite a predicament, indeed.

Talon reappears a few minutes later in a simple, long sleeved cloth shirt and baggy shorts held up by a leather belt. A pair of sandals adorn his feet and a headpiece of white cloth helps to conceal his face. Strung over his shoulder is a satchel which no doubt contains one or more knives belonging to the dark haired assassin. Malzahar parts his lips to ask where Talon is heading when the man pulls back the cloth curtain and leaps out the window, landing with bent knees on the rooftop several feet below.

So much for asking questions.


	6. A Common Wound

Walking around in broad daylight has never been a particularly pleasant activity for Talon. He doesn’t like the irritating scratch of coarse fabric against his face, nor the emptiness he feels when his hands reach for his belted blades, only to find nothing holstered to his side. With his grouchy face and plain, short cut hair, Talon knows his outward appearance is similar to any disgruntled worker sweating his ass off in the Shuriman heat. But it still doesn’t mean he enjoys the facade.    
  
Originally, Talon had procured plenty of food for himself for several days and extra backup supplies in the event of an emergency. Then, a few days ago, Talon was saved by a void mage on the brink of death. All his careful planning was gone in an instant. The moment Talon elected to rescue Malzahar from the streets, the mage  _ became _ Talon’s emergency. He should be furious for wasting supplies and spending days doing nothing at all because Malzahar could get infected and die at any moment. Time he could have spent searching for DuCouteau turned into changing bandages and cleaning up pus.    
  
Despite all his setbacks and unplanned incursions, Talon realizes that he has come to  _ appreciate _ Malzahar’s company. Where Talon keeps his life sealed up like a ship in a bottle, Malzahar allows his past to be reflected on those around him. He has no qualms informing Talon of his time spent living on the streets as a peddler selling fortunes for money. He spun tales of merchants and princes seeking out his future visions in exchange for gold and jewels. Riches beyond Malzahar’s wildest dreams that flooded his pockets and weighed on his human heart until he cast everything he gained life aside and threw himself at the void. His openness came from being a herald of the end. Malzahar had no fear of oblivion.    
  
At least, Talon assumes he doesn’t fear oblivion.   
  
Talking to Malzahar is similar to sliding pieces around in a puzzle box. He uses cryptic words and meanings laced within other meanings that make Talon’s head spin the more he reflects on the mage’s true meanings. The word ‘thank you’ added to every bandage change and potion Talon handed over. Sentiments which Talon had never received from anyone in his life. Not even DuCouteau said thank you to him. Good work. Excellent execution. But he never directly praised Talon himself for carrying out a job to perfection. Why would Malzahar thank him for a job Talon has been performing with meager supplies and limited knowledge?    
  
“What can I get you, sir?” A merchant with a red striped shirt and several baskets of bread asks, interrupting Talon’s train of thought.    
  
“Two of those,” he says quietly and places several coins on the wooden table.    
  
The merchant grabs two loaves of dark brown bread with crinkling seams down the center which had baked a shade lighter than the outer crust. Talon tucks the loaves into his bag and turns towards a bustling street market full of shops and traders shufflings goods amongst one another.    


Above the market streets and strung between houses are woven fabrics nailed to stone walls on one side and attached by simple ropes to hooks on the buildings across the street. The stretch of colorful canopies keeps a portion of sunlight off the backs of merchants and people below as they drag baskets of food, tools, and other goods through the sandy stone streets. Wandering among the crowd with his satchel of bread and hidden blades, Talon keeps himself in line and avoids making too much of a fuss. His earnings from previous assassin contracts is plenty for petty food and supplies, but for health potions and tonics Talon can’t help himself from maneuvering them out of pockets and into his own bag. Gold didn’t grown on trees, after all.

Talon hands out several more gold pieces for bandages and new cloths, then a few more for fresh desert-grown fruit and dried camel meat. Not his favorite, since it tended to be rather chewy and not as filling, but whatever. Shurimans loved their weird camel jerky. He’s got a full pack thumping against his side with every step through the crowded market serving as a reminder that he’s got everything he needs for himself and Malzahar for the next few days.

Just as Talon turns to head back to his hovel, the glint of polished glass swirling with magical liquids catches his eye. Malzahar might need another potion for his large stab wound. A woman selling potions of all shapes and sizes is bartering with another man for what appears to be a blue-tinted bottle that she continues to argue is worth its original price tag of all fifty gold pieces. He spots two healing potions positioned on the very edge of the table, close to the crowd, but far enough away that most people couldn’t simply walk up and remove them. Talon, however, was not most people.    
  
The assassin maneuvers himself through the crowd and slides over to a group of people conversing amicably amongst one another just left of the potion seller’s stand. He pretends to check the contents of his bag for money, but keeps an eye on the lady as she finally persuades the buyer to fork over his gold coins. She turns to her left to tuck her precious profit into her purse and Talon uses this distraction to deftly reach out his hand, snatch up the potions and stick them in his bag with one fluid motion. He begins casually walking away from the stand with all intentions of slipping wordlessly into the crowd and showing off his skills to the void mage sequestered in his hideout when a firm hand clamps down on his shoulder.    
  
“Sir, I’m going to need you to come with me. You’re under arrest for--”   
  
Talon doesn’t wait for the armored guard to finish his sentence. He pulls a knife out of his bag and sinks the sharp blade right between the plates of metal to slice into the guard’s wrist. It creates a spurt of blood that stains Talon’s hands in wet crimson as he pulls the knife out and books it through the crowd. He hears the shrill scream of the guard calling for backup and suddenly the idea of attempting to bully his way through a huge crowd of people isn’t so appetizing. Should the guards split up and surround him, Talon knows he’ll have limited resources and very few avenues to escape without a full on fight.    
  
The assassin turns right and slips sideways through the crowd of people until he emerges on the opposite side of said Shuriman marketplace street where a small alleyway connects to another street. Talon dashes into the small passage and cuts right to evade the guards chasing him down like a pack of hungry dogs. He hears them clamoring in a cacophony of confusion and anger as they attempt to squeeze through the small passage without getting stuck, though only a few get through and continue their chase. The thought of the big, burly guards getting packed in like sardines between two stone walls is enough to put a smile on Talon’s face. Another left hand turn takes Talon right to a medium sized wall between two stone homes which could easily block the guards from following thanks to their size. He sprints right for the wall and tosses the blade over the stone construct first before taking two steps up the vertical surface and grabbing the top of the wall to haul his body up. The assassin easily pulls himself atop the flat wall, but just before he can make it down the other side, a burning pain shoots up his side and knocks Talon off balance.    
  
“Shit!” Talon curses between gritted teeth as he tumbles forward and pulls his arms in to protect his neck from his fall.    
  
Thanks to his years of unfortunate slips and falls, Talon is able to turn his face-first fall into a series of tumbles forward, but it doesn’t detract from the pain of impact or the tragic clink of shattering glass from inside his leather bag.    
  
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Talon groans in exasperation.   
  
He turns to reach into his bag and is met with searing pain in his muscles as he flexes his sides. Talon’s eyes catch on a bloody spear laying on the ground a few feet from his landing point and the assassin curses quietly once more. Of  _ fucking _ course they threw a spear at him. Great. Now he has a blood trail  _ and _ a leaky potion trail to cover. Talon scrambles to grab his bloody dagger and regretfully slips it back into his bag filled with broken glass and gross healing potion liquid. There was no time to stop and fix his bag. He had to get away from the guards before they could catch up to him.   


“There he is! Don’t let him get away!”    
  
His side aches painfully as Talon staggers onto his feet and skirts down another alleyway to avoid confronting the guards head on. The sweltering heat of the Shuriman sun beats against his arms in the uncovered passages between buildings and makes the air taste like hot earth. Without the cover of those woven blankets blocking out the sun, the earth turns against Talon and burns his skin, forcing him to sweat heavily beneath his thin clothing to stay cool. Blood soaks into his red shirt as Talon weaves through side streets and people to evade the local guards. The assassin casts a glance over his shoulder and curses at the trail of light red potion leaking out of his bag mixing with his own blood. A perfect pattern of red splotches broadcasts Talon’s location to the small group of guards who are following the liquid like trained bloodhounds.    
  
The assassin grimaces and slaps a hand onto his side, biting down on his lower lip to keep from screaming in agony while squeezing his side wound. He just needs to find somewhere to go until the guards lose his trail. Talon finds himself wishing that Malzahar would appear and slaughter the guards just as he had done a few nights ago. But that won’t happen. Talon knows his escape is up to him. 

He’s all alone.


	7. An Itch Scratched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to write. I'm dealing with some personal problems and took a vacation in the middle so it was a while before I found time to sit down and write this out. I'll try to go back to updating once every 2-3 weeks after this.

Malzahar didn’t mind being left alone for long periods of time. Most of his life had been spent in isolation from other humans due to his status as a homeless wretch, or the fear of his unending devotion to the void which caused them to hallucinate horrific visions of their own demise. He had each secret whispering of the void to keep him company along with his chittering voidlings who followed Malzahar around like dogs eager for scraps of meat. For the longest time, Malzahar was content with these voices and creatures who he considered to be faithful companions.   
  
Everything had changed the moment he met Talon. A man who watched Malzahar murder a group of people without remorse and _still_ carried him to safety. He was rude, he was crass and rough as sand rubbing between cloth and skin, but he didn’t cower in fear the moment Malzahar’s deep, two toned voice spoke his name. A rarity these days. Talon’s bold behavior brings about a strange chain of feelings from within Malzahar. Long ago he denounced his humanity after witnessing countless cases of violence, thievery, and rage from the people shilling out their material wealth in order to procure more riches than they could ever hope to use. Their ignorance and greed disgusts Malzahar still to this day and he revels in the thought of levelling their precious homes and safes filled with gold into nothing but dust as the void rips open the earth like a ripe peach.   
  
Yet, for all his wishes of destruction and immolation, Malzahar’s mind always wanders back to the man with dark, choppy hair and angry eyes. He lays a hand down on the coarse bedsheets and slowly rubs his fingers over the woven cloth. Images of Talon tucking the cloth around his half-naked body to protect him from the evening chill spring to mind. A self-proclaimed assassin was spending entire days laying around his hideout just to ensure Malzahar didn’t curl up and die. Those kind of soft sentiments are quite contrary to Talon’s threat of kicking Malzahar out of his hideout the moment he can walk. The void prophet mulls over his actions preceding Talon’s more kindhearted gestures and finds an unusual, but common theme linking all of them together. Clearing out Talon’s pursuers, thanking him for his help repairing his stab wounds, and the compliments Malzahar attributed to the assassin’s hard work. Whenever Malzahar is kind to Talon, the man returns the favor.   
  
Any normal person might have looked at Malzahar’s revelation with incredulous bewilderment at something so simple and second nature, but the mage himself is filled with a powerful swell of emotion deep within his heart. The humans who paid him gold for his fortunes never cared about his health. All that mattered to them were their own selfish gains. Talon could have let Malzahar die on the Shuriman streets, but the man took it upon himself to see the void prophet survive his encounter with Kassadin. Malzahar owes Talon a great debt and yet, Talon hasn’t asked for anything in return. Occasionally he'll gripe about Malzahar's complaints when it comes to food and hospitality, but most of their bickering is mutual quips they trade back and forth.

All of Malzahar's thoughts regarding Talon bring about another uneasy supposition. It had been quite a few hours since the man stormed out of their shared safe house with plainclothes on and a satchel slung over his shoulder. There was no real warning of where the assassin was going or for how long he would be gone, but as Malzahar watches the golden glowing sun setting over the horizon of sand dunes, he's beginning to wonder if Talon will return. Talon would complain non-stop about the Shuriman desert heat, so surely he wouldn't spend more time than necessary stalking around in the open. 

Malzahar debates on sending out a voidling to scout the local area when a heavy hand latches on to the open window sill and a second, stained palm follows suit. Talon pulls himself up and into the room as a pained grunt fills the air. He collapses onto the floor with no grace whatsoever and wheezes out several shallow breaths. Not a good sign in the slightest. 

_"Talon? Talon, what's wrong?"_ Malzahar asks while slowly shuffling his legs over the side of the bed. 

Talon mutters something against the floor that sounds suspiciously like 'guards' and 'pain in my ass' mixed with copious amounts of swear words. Dark red droplets of blood slide down the assassin's fingers clasping at his left hand side. Malzahar's glowing blue eyes widen slightly in fear at Talon's now obvious side wound. If he didn't get medical attention, it was quite possible for the assassin to die before morning. 

_“Talon. You're bleeding,”_ Malzahar points out softly. _"What happened? How long have you been running around with this?"_

"No. Shit. Fuckin...spear...hurts like a motherfucker," Talon curses through grit teeth. 

_"They hit you with a spear? Can you stand?"_ The mage asks the injured assassin. 

"I don't _fuckin_ know, Mal," Talon impatiently spits back. "Had to run...all the _goddamn_ way back. Without being tracked." 

_"You need attention. Come on, just get yourself onto the bed. I'll help,"_ Malzahar firmly insists while keeping his eyes on Talon's wound.

The mage carefully kneels down on the floor to weave his arm around Talon's back and lift the assassin off the ground. A pained curse rips itself from the dark haired assassin's throat with all the jostling, but Malzahar doesn't give Talon time to complain about his rough treatment. Malzahar shuffles over to the mattress and carefully lowers Talon onto the warm, wrinkled bedsheets where the man lays face up and groaning in agony over an unseen wound. The mage reaches down to his belt and carefully pulls a single, sharpened dagger out of its ornate sheath. A simple weapon which he kept on his person for skinning animals or cutting rope, but would do just fine for cutting away Talon's ruined shirt. 

Malzahar, again, lowers himself to his knees and takes a fistful of stiff red cloth in one hand before pressing the tip of his dagger against the straining fibers. Talon's shirt cuts away with just a few, precise slices and Malzahar slides each scrap onto the floor in a small heap. With the area clear, the mage can see a gash running diagonally across Talon's side. Blood oozes from the split muscle everytime Talon takes a short, strained breath. Malzahar knows the assassin will need stitches first and foremost before he bleeds to death. 

_"Where do you keep your needles and thread?"_ Malzahar asks the prone man. 

"Drawer," Talon huffs between heavy breaths. "Wh-what are you doing?"

_"The extent of your wound is rather severe. Especially since you seem to have left it open for so long. I need to clean and stitch it closed before bandaging you up, otherwise you may very well bleed out overnight."_

Malzahar opens the small nightstand sitting adjacent to Talon's bed and pulls out a spool of heavy thread along with several small needles. There isn't a waterskin within reach, though. A quick click of his tongue has several voidlings appearing from tiny void portals and gathering obediently at Malzahar's side with their many eyes all focusing on his face. 

_"Go find me the waterskin Talon uses, a swatch of fabric to clean up all this blood, and a wooden spoon,"_ the mage commands to his small army of voidlings. 

"Spoon?" Talon grunts with a bit of curiosity. 

_"You, my dear savior, are quite loud. And this is going to hurt. A lot."_

"Hey, fuck you." 

_"We can talk about this after you stop bleeding out,"_ Malzahar reassures with the tiniest hint of a smile. 

One of the voidlings returns with a waterskin dragging behind it's small body as the other two scramble to catch up with their own prizes of a wooden spoon and a small towel. Malzahar holds out his hand for all three items and nods in appreciation towards his small underlings for their contribution to saving their master's savior. 

_"Talon, open your mouth, please,"_ the mage asks politely while holding the spoon handle over Talon's face. 

"Fuck. Off. I'm not fucking-" Talon angrily spits back before Malzahar pushes down on his teeth and forces the assasin to drop his jaw enough for the wooden spoon to fit snugly between his teeth. His words become little more than aggressive growls and syllables between the wooden gag. 

_"Sorry. I don't have time to humor you while you're slowly dying,"_ Malzahar quietly apologizes.

The mage quickly wets the small rag and carefully dabs the damp cloth against the skin around Talon's long gash to clear away any remnants of dry blood or dirt caking his skin. A clean wound is a safe wound. Once his skin is fairly clean, Malzahar takes one of the needles and threads a long stretch of heavy cord through its eye. Talon is reluctantly maintaining silence around his gag, which Malzahar is grateful for, despite the awkward application. All the better while he stitches the man back together. 

He pushes the needle into Talon's skin and immediately elicits a muffled cry of pain from the assassin. A hand grabs onto Malzahar's bare shoulder and digs down painfully hard into his muscle. Malzahar would find the situation ironic if time wasn't working against him. Again, he pushes the needle in and out the other side of Talon's wound before pulling the thread tight. Over and over Malzahar pulls and pokes and prods the assassin's tender wound until the split muscle is tightly bound together with neat stitches. Talon manages not to scream for dear life, but a _lot_ of curses are muffled by one very handy wooden spoon slotted between his teeth. Malzahar sets the needle aside and takes up his slightly bloody cloth to clean Talon's stitches. He fishes around in the assassin's satchel laying on the floor and finds a small roll of gauze bandages that are quickly wrapped around the injured man's side to keep his wound from garnering further infections or damage. Malzahar carefully slides the spoon out of Talon's mouth and sets it aside so the assassin can breathe freely after his ordeal.

_"How do you feel?"_

"Been better. Mother fucker, that hurt so _fucking_ bad," Talon hisses with a small grimace. "Is that what yours was like?"

_"More or less. I think you were faster at stitching,"_ Malzahar says just to humor the man.

"Hah. Fuckin' knew it," he laughs weakly with a breathless grin.

Talon's slight labored breathing is the only sound in the whole room as the last few rays of shuriman sunlight keeping the men illuminated slowly dim and dip beneath the sand dunes to the west. Malzahar sits himself down on the mattress to Talon's right as the encroaching darkness fills the bedroom in a layer of stifling silence. The mage also notes with mild amusement that the assassin's calloused hand hasn't left his shoulder from the earlier stitches. Malzahar figured Talon would want space as soon as the stitches were finished, but the gentle grip of calloused fingertips isn't an unwelcome gesture. 

_"I think it's time we sleep,"_ Malzahar whispers into the bedroom after a few minutes of complete quiet.

He glances down at Talon's face and through the dimming dusk notes the unconscious expression of his assassin housemate. Instead of trying to move either party out of the bedroom, Malzahar simply slides down onto his back and lays down beside Talon. The left arm rests slack at his side while his right reaches across his own chest to gently overlap Talon's hand where it rests against his shoulder. His fingers are still rough and warm when the mage closes his glowing blue eyes and slips into a light sleep filled by dreams of the void reclaiming what rightfully belonged to it all along.


End file.
